Why
by LadyVegeets
Summary: Bulma asks, and is asked, 'why' a lot. Set in that tricksy 3-year-gap.


The bleeding had lessened to a slow drip. That was Saiyan genes for you: self-preservation at its finest. The fight must go on, even if the flesh was unwilling. Or unable.

Bulma's ministrations were probably unnecessary. The warrior prince had survived worse, but she wasn't about to play chicken with Vegeta's life. Not if the boy-from-the-future was to be believed. Earth would need every strong fighter it had to defeat the androids, which included Mr. Short, Angry and Bleeding over here.

"Why do you have to push yourself to the point of near-death?" Bulma chastised as she smoothed ointment over his bloody knuckles. "You're no good to us dead."

"Like I care what use I am to you," he replied as he allowed her to dress his wounds, strangely compliant under her attention. That would have been the end of the conversation had anyone else been present, but it was just the two of them, sitting in her lab with a large first aid kit opened by her hip. Vegeta was watching her hands work on his, the expression on his face reflective. As she wound a bandage around his ruined hand, Vegeta finally granted her a real answer.

"It's necessary."

"What is? Killing yourself? That's asinine."

His lips thinned. "Kakarot is asinine. _I_ am pragmatic. Saiyans get stronger when we survive near-death experiences."

Did he mean what she thought he meant? Her eyes widened, an icy shiver running through her. Was this man deranged? "Are you… Are you saying you're purposefully trying to kill yourself just so you can get a _power boost_?"

He stared back at her with dark, emotionless eyes. "Yes."

What the actual hell? Bulma believed Son Goku was boneheaded, especially when compared to her own lofty intelligence, but Vegeta was building a pretty strong case that idiocy was a Saiyan affliction. What kind of stupendous moron would risk their own life, _repeatedly_ , just for a stupid power-up? Sure, Vegeta needed to get stronger; they all did to defeat the androids. But this? _This_ was his brilliant plan on how to do that?

How dare he. How dare he show such blatant disregard for his life? A life she herself had become responsible for when she invited him to stay with her, going so far as to involve herself in improving his training equipment. Which, as it turned out, was just a means for him to better commit near-suicide on a daily basis. It was sick. Every time he had come to her, demanding that the gravity chamber be stronger, more difficult, more dangerous, and she had complied, she had only been helping him torture himself.

Something like boiling water bubbled inside her, swelling and bursting with superheated indignation. It burned. And it hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Vegeta continued monologuing.

"I would be stronger too if it weren't for your miserable Earth medicines. If I had a healing tank, I could maximize—"

The loud, stinging slap of her palm across his cheek echoed in the lab. Bulma's heart thundered a thousand beats per minute. The brutal quiet as the strike faded into silence was excruciating.

She had struck him. Oh no. _Oh no_. But the most terrifying thing was: he hadn't stopped her.

Why?

Had he allowed the slap, knowing that it wouldn't hurt him? Had he allowed it, just to laugh at her paltry strength?

But the shock on his face (a perfect mirror of her own feelings) indicated otherwise. He hadn't stopped her because, somehow, he hadn't seen it coming. Vegeta, who could combat attacks from the greatest and fastest fighters in the universe, hadn't been able to stop her hand. The Prince of the Eternally-alert, Always-suspicious-of-everyone, Never-able-let-his-guard-down-around-anyone, ever, had let his guard down.

Around her.

And in his moment of 'weakness', she had hit him. Him: a volatile, powerful, psychopathic mass-murderer.

…Shit.

If Bulma were any sane person, she would have fallen to her knees and groveled for her life. Instead, she put on her big-girl pants, and lifted her chin to look down at him with self-righteous outrage. "If you want to abuse yourself so badly, fine. But I won't be a part in it any longer."

She stormed out, leaving him sitting in her lab, hands half-bandage, cheek still pink from her palm print, and him oddly unresponsive.

* * *

~xox~

* * *

Capsule Corporation was a large building, large enough that one could easily avoid another, especially when both parties were determined not to meet. Bulma stayed to her lab, and Vegeta to the gravity chamber. The glimpses she did catch of him, and the gossip she gleaned from her parents, bespoke of a man still training himself to the brink of death. It rankled and annoyed her endlessly that Vegeta hadn't changed his habits. She didn't know what bothered her more: his flagrant indifference for his own health, or his bullheadedness that rivaled her own. Perhaps, in truth, it was a little of both.

It was a perfectly sunny afternoon, and she had just come back from a terrible row with Yamcha. Strutting through the living room, still bristling from her sour date, Bulma found Vegeta sitting on the couch, shirtless, the first aid kit opened on the coffee table before him. The place was a mess, medical items strewn everywhere. Vegeta was in the middle of bandaging his knuckles, or at least trying to, using his teeth to primitively tighten the bindings. He froze when he spotted her, teeth still gnashed over white linen. Their eyes met and held, observing the other.

Just leave, Bulma told herself. Just leave the brute be. You've had enough of men for one day, and this one is no longer your concern.

But her mouth didn't listen. She wasn't in the habit of being told what to do, even from herself.

"Why?" she asked, summoning her best air of elitist entitlement. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

His only response: a scowl. Breaking her gaze, Vegeta turned from her to rummage in the first-aid kit for more bandages.

Oh, nuh-uh. If he thought he could downgrade her to some peon that didn't deserve the benefit of a reply, he was about to learn a rather harsh lesson in the school of Bulma Briefs.

She stormed over to the table and snatched up the first-aid kit out from his hands. He glared at her, the malice in his eyes a sweet satisfaction. Got your attention now, huh? Unfortunately, she had gotten more than that. The entire contents of the first aid kit were smeared with blood. As was the couch and carpet. In fact, there was a lovely trail of red all down the hallway.

"Uh! Oh my god, Vegeta. Gross. You're bleeding everywhere! Who is going to clean this up?"

"This might be a difficult concept for that tiny Earth brain of yours to understand, but I need to stop the bleeding first," he sneered.

"You could have asked for help you know, instead of trying to do everything yourself and making a mess in my house," she replied back in exasperation. "Better yet, you could not fuck yourself up so badly in the first place. What the hell is your deal? I thought you were smarter than this. Did dying on Namek damage your brain or something?"

He stood up, muscles rippling under skin battered with marks, both old and new. Only inches separated them. He was so close that she could smell his sweat, and the blood and antiseptic on his hands. She could see the dark circles lining his eyes, telling her of grueling days and sleepless nights that the man himself would never admit to. He glared at her. Obsidian eyes, which she normally found so cold and dispassionate, were ablaze with a startling black fire.

"My 'deal' is that I'm trying to achieve the ultimate transformation, my birth right, so that I can lay to rest any ridiculous rumors about dying to some miserable machines, and put Kakarot back in his proper place."

"Oh, boo-hoo," Bulma mocked. She had had it with the male ego, and unfortunately, Vegeta was the only target in sight to vent upon. "It's always super saiyan this, Kakarot that with you. Is your pride the only thing you think about? You must get awfully tired carrying that chip around on your shoulder."

" _Don't_ ridicule me, woman," Vegeta growled, his voice low and filled with warning. He stepped forward, his chest pressing into the first aid kit to better loom over her. The air between them grew dense. Electric. It prickled her skin, the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck standing on end.

Not about to be intimidated, Bulma shoved the kit into his chest. He caught it reflexively.

"Take this and your ki and bad attitude, and stick it up your ass."

With a flip of her curls over her shoulder, Bulma strutted away. She didn't look back, telling herself she was done caring about him for good.

* * *

~xox~

* * *

Breaking up with Yamcha was one of the hardest — yet easiest — things Bulma had ever had to do. It was hard to end a decade-long relationship to a man whom she still loved — just not in _that_ way anymore. There was still a lot of affection, a lot of playfulness, and many, many good memories. But a relationship needed more than memories and platonic love to survive. Which is why it had also been easy: deep down, for a long time now, Bulma had known that they were over.

"Why?" Yamcha asked.

There were a lot of reasons why. The lack of passion, lack of trust, lack of shared interests barely scratched the surface. A lot of complicated emotions were involved. But what had really forced Bulma's decision had been his death. As devastating as it was to lose him, a small, tiny part of her had felt _relieved_.

The guilt from that fueled her all the way to Namek to bring him and the others back, as if by sheer force of action, she could erase that ugly revelation from her heart. But she couldn't. The horrible, worrying nugget of truth never left her, weighing heavily on her conscience, more so than ever after Yamcha was resurrected. It forced her to face some harsh realities. Bulma didn't want to be tied to a man out of mere habit and guilt. They both deserved better. They both deserved to be happy.

She broke up with him. For good this time. He left her, sad, but understanding.

Yet Bulma remained unhappy. In fact, she was more miserable than ever. The days dragged on, blurring one into the next as she wasted away hours in her lab on projects she couldn't fully invest in when she didn't know if civilization would be around in two years time. Her friends were all busy, most of them training for the arrival of the androids. Newly single and monstrously bored with her life, Bulma tried dating, but it only left her feeling far more lonely than ever. On a purely physical level, her dates were a poor substitution to the muscled perfection she normally kept. On an emotional level, they were lacking even more. It wasn't that her dates couldn't compare to Yamcha, it was that they couldn't compare to her. No one could come close to relating to the crazy adventures she had been on in her life. She couldn't talk about her past, filled with wish-granting orbs and dragons, villains, end-of-the-world battles and space venturing. Nor could she discuss her future, as uncertain as it was, filled with potential apocalyptic doom. Who would believe her? She couldn't even talk about the present, her job or worries or interests because they were all tied up with ki battles and genocidal androids and men from outer space. Even her scientific endeavors, which seemed normal in comparison, were still far beyond the intelligence of most people she came across.

She couldn't connect with anyone. Totally alone, ostracized among her people. An outsider in her own world.

Then again, at least she _had_ a world, which is more than could be said for some. Every time Bulma was feeling a little too sorry for herself, she wandered past the gravity chamber or the kitchen during meal times, spying a self-destructive asshole who, much like her, was an outsider, only he didn't even have a planet or people to call his own. It was supposed to make her feel better about herself.

It didn't.

Jeez. What a sorry pair they made.

It was late in the evening. Bulma had spent all day on test simulations in her lab that, to her great vexation, had failed one after the other after the next. Calling it quits, Bulma headed to the kitchen for a late dinner. It was empty. Her parents were out of town, and Vegeta was still training or already retired for the night. She pulled out some leftovers from the fridge and sat down to eat.

As she chewed on a mouthful of cold pasta salad, something black and fluffy caught her eye. Squinting at the window, Bulma tried to make it out. Was it Scratch? Had he gotten outside? She got up and headed for the back door. But on approach, it became clear that it wasn't her father's black cat, but a familiar lick of flame black-hair dancing in the breeze.

"Vegeta…?"

What was he doing hanging out at the back of the house? An uneasiness crept over her, twisting her gut. She glanced down, and the world dropped out from under her.

Blood, lots of it. Smeared all over the lawn from here to where they kept the gravity chamber. Oh no… No, no, no! Please be okay… Bulma wrenched the sliding door open and there he was, slumped on the grass, his back against the wall and his head dropped forward. Vegeta was covered in blood and bruises, and he wasn't moving. His hands lay lax at his sides, palms up, half-torn bandages soaked in blood and dirt. His fingers were curled like dead spider legs.

Goddamn him.

Bulma fell to his side and grabbed his shoulders, giving the unconscious man a not-so-gentle shake. "Vegeta!"

He jerked and sharply inhaled, his breathing raspy like a smoker's cough. Raising his head, he blinked open dull eyes. He looked terrible, his face ashen, his eyes sunken. There was blood everywhere: dripping down his temple, down the corners of his mouth and out from his ears. His hands and knees were bathed in the stuff, the ground seeped in it. If a human had lost this much blood, they would be dead already. Even Vegeta was struggling not to do likewise.

"What are you doing just sitting here, you idiot!" she asked, fighting back panicked tears as she took in his pitiful appearance. His head started to drop forward, so she took his face into her hands to hold him up. Red spittle dribbled from his lips, and she wiped it away with her thumb.

"Didn't… want to… make… a mess…" he said, each word a struggle to get out. His eyelids drooped, struggling to stay conscious.

Bulma gave a wet, sobbing laugh. "You moron. I don't care about the carpet. You're dying!"

"Not likely," Vegeta replied, giving in and letting his eyes fall closed. "Can't die… Can never… die. No matter what… I do."

Bulma felt fat tears drip down her cheeks. Was Vegeta bragging, or bemoaning his tenacity to survive? Idiot. Jerk! How dare he want to die on her. How selfish could he be?

"S-stop talking nonsense and stand up. If you're worried about making a mess inside the house, think what a dead body is going to do for my backyard! We need to get you medical attention." She let his face go to grab his arms in an attempt to pull him up. But he was dead weight. He didn't budge and didn't even try to. Without his help, Bulma didn't have a chance in hell of getting him inside. "Vegeta, c'mon! Work with me here," she pleaded, growing desperate. Every second they wasted was more blood he lost.

Please, please, don't leave me here by myself.

His eyes slit open, regarding her gravely. She continued pulling, but to no avail.

"Get up, you lazy bum, please!"

"Why?" he croaked.

"Because I can't carry you by myself, asshole!"

"No… Idiot. Why… Why do you… care?"

She froze, staring at him in dismay. His question hit like a freight train. He was right. She did care. She had always cared, not just about him, but all her friends. Yet they always left her, for the next battle, the next girl, the next adventure. It didn't seem to matter how helpful she was, how much smarter or richer, or how much she fought to keep up with them. In the end, they pulled ahead and she was left standing in the same place she had always been: alone and filled with a desperate need to care for others, but with no one to unleash her affection upon, except her inanimate inventions.

She couldn't stop crying, the tears flowing embarrassingly free. She cried for herself, for Vegeta, for all that could have been in her life but wasn't. Something brushed her cheek and she hiccoughed, opening watery eyes. Vegeta watched her with a perplexed expression, observing her cry as though she were an undiscovered species. He brushed her wet cheek with the back of his fingers. Her breath caught in her throat. So mesmerized was she by his tender gesture, that she forgot to cry. His hand trailed up, touching one of her bobbing curls, fingering the softness of her hair. The blue curl turned black with blood under his touch. He frowned, mouth thinning when he saw that he had marred her. He let his hand drop back to the ground.

"Go inside," he told her hoarsely, letting his gaze slip away, avoiding her eyes. "I don't need… your pity."

His head dropped back against the wall, and he closed his eyes, shutting her out.

Bulma sucked in wet, hiccoughing breaths. Shattered. No, no, she refused. She staggered to her feet and ran inside, not to let him die as he wanted, but to help. She hurried and fetch the first aid kit, water and towels. Being around Goku, and lately Vegeta, meant that she always had a hefty supply of medical equipment on hand.

No one was going to leave her behind where she couldn't follow. Not this time.

When she came back, Vegeta was passed out. It made treating him much easier. She bandaged his biggest wounds first, and attached an IV of O negative blood into his arm. Hopefully the 'universal' donor really was that. Tending to him was oddly therapeutic, and it calmed her down, allowing her to gather her emotions and a sense of control.

Last of all, she removed his tattered bindings and gently bathed his hands with water and povidone-iodine. A soft hiss startled her. Looking up, she found him awake, quietly observing her actions. How long had he been watching her?

"Oh good, you're not dead yet," she said, trying to sound sarcastic, embarrassed about her earlier hysterics. "This was your best attempt at dying so far. A few more tries and you might actually succeed."

"Hn."

She wound fresh bandaged around his hands. They sat in silence, the routine of her fixing him up familiar and comfortable.

"You know?" she said, smoothing her thumb over his knuckles. "We're a lot a like."

He gave her an incredulous look, but did not — she noticed — immediately scoff. "How?"

She gave him a sad smile. "Maybe if you spent less time playing Russian Roulette with your life, and more time looking at what's in front of you, you would know."

The look of confusion he gave her was comical. She laughed.

"Can you get up yet?"

He looked away. "I get up when it pleases me."

That was a 'no' then. Which meant he was still pathetically weak.

Vulnerable even.

Totally defenseless.

She smirked.

"What would you do if I kissed you right now?" she asked.

Vegeta's eyebrows attempted to leave his face, and he could barely splutter out a response. "Wh-What…! Why would you…?"

She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. It was a tender, chaste little thing, but she was surprised by how many butterflies it made flutter in her stomach.

And they fluttered up a storm when, after a moment, he cautiously kissed her back.

* * *

 **~xo0ox~**

* * *

 **Beta-read** by **Artephile** / **Marcella-Duchamp.**

 **AN:** This was supposed to be only a few hundred words. Then it became a short goddamn story out of nowhere, haha. Oops.

DBZ is owned by Akira Toriyama and Toei Animation. Find more by LadyVegeets on FFnet, AO3, Tumblr, twitter and p atreon.


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